On Writing (Loud Mental Notes):

Posted In reponse to:

http://emilydreams.wordpress.com/2011/01/17/short-stories/

I have reposted the following to bookmark a concept I would like to develop further in the body of this page, that being the relavancy of the many forms of writing and their place among the craft as a whole.

 “It is amazing how one language can contain so many expansions around the base expression of its form.

As far as the value of short stories as a form of fiction, I can say that short stories offer the writer and the reader an entirely different set of mechanics for conveying the central themes of their designs. The short story allows for both a captivating, subtle, episodic, non linear– limitless potential for storytelling within a reasonably immortal span of text.
It may seem like little space to tell your story, and unlike vast forms such as the epic or the novel, they have the advantage and the disadvantage of forcing both writer and reader into a relative time-frame (you only have so many words, often under 10, 000), and that can actually be used to the advantage of you the writer.
Realizing that when you offer readers a reasonably digestible length allows you to craft the small intervals of storytelling you are allowed to fill with even greater significance and precision. Every word, every punctuation mark, every line becomes an essential tool when you and your expressions are confined by the limits of an artistic form; short stories, poetry, and free verse, are merely variations on the limits of a unified form, but just as genres in music vary to accentuate different instruments, keys, and meters, so too does the short story accentuate entirely different variations of written expression.

So yes.

Look to: Poe, Lovecraft, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Salinger, Gogol, Phillip K Dick, Bowles,Asimov, Bradbury, Vonnegut, Bierce, and there are many many many more quality artists. It has become its own form of creation among writers.

Its a beautiful thing to know each individual letter is attributing to the relevancy of the whole composition.”

———

I will merely be reposting until I have a minute to wrie separate comparative articles on each form and point.  I will highlight the portion I see as relavant, comment if you wish, I encourage it.

For now?

Food for thought.

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About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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